something, she said "What?" That can get on your nerves after a while.
All of a sudden, when they finished their drink, all three of them stood up on me
and said they had to get to bed. They said they were going to get up early to see the first
show at Radio City Music Hall. I tried to get them to stick around for a while, but they
wouldn't. So we said good-by and all. I told them I'd look them up in Seattle sometime, if
I ever got there, but I doubt if I ever will. Look them up, I mean.
With cigarettes and all, the check came to about thirteen bucks. I think they
should've at least offered to pay for the drinks they had before I joined them--I
wouldn't've let them, naturally, but they should've at least offered. I didn't care much,
though. They were so ignorant, and they had those sad, fancy hats on and all. And that
business about getting up early to see the first show at Radio City Music Hall depressed
me. If somebody, some girl in an awful-looking hat, for instance, comes all the way to
New York--from Seattle, Washington, for God's sake--and ends up getting up early in the
morning to see the goddam first show at Radio City Music Hall, it makes me so
depressed I can't stand it. I'd've bought the whole three of them a hundred drinks if only
they hadn't told me that.
I left the Lavender Room pretty soon after they did. They were closing it up
anyway, and the band had quit a long time ago. In the first place, it was one of those
places that are very terrible to be in unless you have somebody good to dance with, or
unless the waiter lets you buy real drinks instead of just Cokes. There isn't any night club
in the world you can sit in for a long time unless you can at least buy some liquor and get
drunk. Or unless you're with some girl that really knocks you out.
All of a sudden, on my way out to the lobby, I got old Jane Gallagher on the brain
again. I got her on, and I couldn't get her off. I sat down in this vomity-looking chair in
the lobby and thought about her and Stradlater sitting in that goddam Ed Banky's car, and
though I was pretty damn sure old Stradlater hadn't given her the time--I know old Jane
like a book--I still couldn't get her off my brain. I knew her like a book. I really did. I
mean, besides checkers, she was quite fond of all athletic sports, and after I got to know
her, the whole summer long we played tennis together almost every morning and golf
almost every afternoon. I really got to know her quite intimately. I don't mean it was
anything physical or anything--it wasn't--but we saw each other all the time. You don't
always have to get too sexy to get to know a girl. The way I met her, this Doberman pinscher she had used to come over and relieve
himself on our lawn, and my mother got very irritated about it. She called up Jane's
mother and made a big stink about it. My mother can make a very big stink about that
kind of stuff. Then what happened, a couple of days later I saw Jane laying on her
stomach next to the swimming pool, at the club, and I said hello to her. I knew she lived
in the house next to ours, but I'd never conversed with her before or anything. She gave
me the big freeze when I said hello that day, though. I had a helluva time convincing her
that I didn't give a good goddam where her dog relieved himself. He could do it in the
living room, for all I cared. Anyway, after that, Jane and I got to be friends and all. I
played golf with her that same afternoon. She lost eight balls, I remember. Eight. I had a
terrible time getting her to at least open her eyes when she took a swing at the ball. I
improved her game immensely, though. I'm a very good golfer. If I told you what I go
around in, you probably wouldn't believe me. I almost was once in a movie short, but I
changed my mind at the last minute. I figured that anybody that hates the movies as much
as I do, I'd be a phony if I let them stick me in a movie short.
She was a funny girl, old Jane. I wouldn't exactly describe her as strictly beautiful.
She knocked me out, though. She was sort of muckle-mouthed. I mean when she was
talking and she got excited about something, her mouth sort of went in about fifty
directions, her lips and all. That killed me. And she never really closed it all the way, her
mouth. It was always just a little bit open, especially when she got in her golf stance, or
when she was reading a book. She was always reading, and she read very good books.
She read a lot of poetry and all. She was the only one, outside my family, that I ever
showed Allie's baseball mitt to, with all the poems written on it. She'd never met Allie or
anything, because that was her first summer in Maine--before that, she went to Cape Cod-
-but I told her quite a lot about him. She was interested in that kind of stuff.
My mother didn't like her too much. I mean my mother always thought Jane and
her mother were sort of snubbing her or something when they didn't say hello. My
mother saw them in the village a lot, because Jane used to drive to market with her
mother in this LaSalle convertible they had. My mother didn't think Jane was pretty,
even. I did, though. I just liked the way she looked, that's all.
I remember this one afternoon. It was the only time old Jane and I ever got close
to necking, even. It was a Saturday and it was raining like a bastard out, and I was over at
her house, on the porch--they had this big screened-in porch. We were playing checkers. I
used to kid her once in a while because she wouldn't take her kings out of the back row.
But I didn't kid her much, though. You never wanted to kid Jane too much. I think I really
like it best when you can kid the pants off a girl when the opportunity arises, but it's a
funny thing. The girls I like best are the ones I never feel much like kidding. Sometimes I
think they'd like it if you kidded them--in fact, I know they would--but it's hard to get
started, once you've known them a pretty long time and never kidded them. Anyway, I
was telling you about that afternoon Jane and I came close to necking. It was raining like
hell and we were out on her porch, and all of a sudden this booze hound her mother was
married to came out on the porch and asked Jane if there were any cigarettes in the house.
I didn't know him too well or anything, but he looked like the kind of guy that wouldn't
talk to you much unless he wanted something off you. He had a lousy personality.
Anyway, old Jane wouldn't answer him when he asked her if she knew where there was
any cigarettes. So the guy asked her again, but she still wouldn't answer him. She didn't even look up from the game. Finally the guy went inside the house. When he did, I asked
Jane what the hell was going on. She wouldn't even answer me, then. She made out like
she was concentrating on her next move in the game and all. Then all of a sudden, this
tear plopped down on the checkerboard. On one of the red squares--boy, I can still see it.
She just rubbed it into the board with her finger. I don't know why, but it bothered hell
out of me. So what I did was, I went over and made her move over on the glider so that I
could sit down next to her--I practically sat down in her lap, as a matter of fact. Then she
really started to cry, and the next thing I knew, I was kissing her all over--anywhere--her
eyes, her nose, her forehead, her eyebrows and all, her ears--her whole face except her
mouth and all. She sort of wouldn't let me get to her mouth. Anyway, it was the closest
we ever got to necking. After a while, she got up and went in and put on this red and
white sweater she had, that knocked me out, and we went to a goddam movie. I asked
her, on the way, if Mr. Cudahy--that was the booze hound's name--had ever tried to get
wise with her. She was pretty young, but she had this terrific figure, and I wouldn't've put
it past that Cudahy bastard. She said no, though. I never did find out what the hell was the
matter. Some girls you practically never find out what's the matter.
I don't want you to get the idea she was a goddam icicle or something, just
because we never necked or horsed around much. She wasn't. I held hands with her all
the time, for instance. That doesn't sound like much, I realize, but she was terrific to hold
hands with. Most girls if you hold hands with them, their goddam hand dies on you, or
else they think they have to keep moving their hand all the time, as if they were afraid
they'd bore you or something. Jane was different. We'd get into a goddam movie or
something, and right away we'd start holding hands, and we wouldn't quit till the movie
was over. And without changing the position or making a big deal out of it. You never
even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you
were happy. You really were.
One other thing I just thought of. One time, in this movie, Jane did something that
just about knocked me out. The newsreel was on or something, and all of a sudden I felt
this hand on the back of my neck, and it was Jane's. It was a funny thing to do. I mean
she was quite young and all, and most girls if you see them putting their hand on the back
of somebody's neck, they're around twenty-five or thirty and usually they're doing it to
their husband or their little kid--I do it to my kid sister Phoebe once in a while, for
instance. But if a girl's quite young and all and she does it, it's so pretty it just about kills
you.
Anyway, that's what I was thinking about while I sat in that vomity-looking chair
in the lobby. Old Jane. Every time I got to the part about her out with Stradlater in that
damn Ed Banky's car, it almost drove me crazy. I knew she wouldn't let him get to first
base with her, but it drove me crazy anyway. I don't even like to talk about it, if you want
to know the truth.
There was hardly anybody in the lobby any more. Even all the whory-looking
blondes weren't around any more, and all of a sudden I felt like getting the hell out of the
place. It was too depressing. And I wasn't tired or anything. So I went up to my room and
put on my coat. I also took a look out the window to see if all the perverts were still in
action, but the lights and all were out now. I went down in the elevator again and got a
cab and told the driver to take me down to Ernie's. Ernie's is this night club in Greenwich
Village that my brother D.B. used to go to quite frequently before he went out to Hollywood and prostituted himself. He used to take me with him once in a while. Ernie's
a big fat colored guy that plays the piano. He's a terrific snob and he won't hardly even
talk to you unless you're a big shot or a celebrity or something, but he can really play the
piano. He's so good he's almost corny, in fact. I don't exactly know what I mean by that,
but I mean it. I certainly like to hear him play, but sometimes you feel like turning his
goddam piano over. I think it's because sometimes when he plays, he sounds like the kind
of guy that won't talk to you unless you're a big shot.
The cab I had was a real old one that smelled like someone'd just tossed his
cookies in it. I always get those vomity kind of cabs if I go anywhere late at night. What
made it worse, it was so quiet and lonesome out, even though it was Saturday night. I
didn't see hardly anybody on the street. Now and then you just saw a man and a girl
crossing a street, with their arms around each other's waists and all, or a bunch of
hoodlumy-looking guys and their dates, all of them laughing like hyenas at something
you could bet wasn't funny. New York's terrible when somebody laughs on the street very
late at night. You can hear it for miles. It makes you feel so lonesome and depressed. I
kept wishing I could go home and shoot the bull for a while with old Phoebe. But finally,
after I was riding a while, the cab driver and I sort of struck up a conversation. His name
was Horwitz. He was a much better guy than the other driver I'd had. Anyway, I thought
maybe he might know about the ducks.
"Hey, Horwitz," I said. "You ever pass by the lagoon in Central Park? Down by
Central Park South?"
"The what?"
"The lagoon. That little lake, like, there. Where the ducks are. You know."
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Well, you know the ducks that swim around in it? In the springtime and all? Do
you happen to know where they go in the wintertime, by any chance?"
"Where who goes?"
"The ducks. Do you know, by any chance? I mean does somebody come around
in a truck or something and take them away, or do they fly away by themselves--go south
or something?"
Old Horwitz turned all the way around and looked at me. He was a very
impatient-type guy. He wasn't a bad guy, though. "How the hell should I know?" he said.
"How the hell should I know a stupid thing like that?"
"Well, don't get sore about it," I said. He was sore about it or something.
"Who's sore? Nobody's sore."
I stopped having a conversation with him, if he was going to get so damn touchy
about it. But he started it up again himself. He turned all the way around again, and said,
"The fish don't go no place. They stay right where they are, the fish. Right in the goddam
lake."
"The fish--that's different. The fish is different. I'm talking about the ducks," I
said. "What's different about it? Nothin's different about it," Horwitz said. Everything
he said, he sounded sore about something. "It's tougher for the fish, the winter and all,
than it is for the ducks, for Chrissake. Use your head, for Chrissake."
I didn't say anything for about a minute. Then I said, "All right. What do they do,
the fish and all, when that whole little lake's a solid block of ice, people skating on it and
all?"
Old Horwitz turned around again. "What the hellaya mean what do they do?" he
yelled at me. "They stay right where they are, for Chrissake."
"They can't just ignore the ice. They can't just ignore it."
"Who's ignoring it? Nobody's ignoring it!" Horwitz said. He got so damn excited
and all, I was afraid he was going to drive the cab right into a lamppost or something.
"They live right in the goddam ice. It's their nature, for Chrissake. They get frozen right
in one position for the whole winter."
"Yeah? What do they eat, then? I mean if they're frozen solid, they can't swim
around looking for food and all."
"Their bodies, for Chrissake--what'sa matter with ya? Their bodies take in
nutrition and all, right through the goddam seaweed and crap that's in the ice. They got
their pores open the whole time. That's their nature, for Chrissake. See what I mean?" He
turned way the hell around again to look at me.
"Oh," I said. I let it drop. I was afraid he was going to crack the damn taxi up or
something. Besides, he was such a touchy guy, it wasn't any pleasure discussing anything
with him. "Would you care to stop off and have a drink with me somewhere?" I said.
He didn't answer me, though. I guess he was still thinking. I asked him again,
though. He was a pretty good guy. Quite amusing and all.
"I ain't got no time for no liquor, bud," he said. "How the hell old are you,
anyways? Why ain'tcha home in bed?"
"I'm not tired."
When I got out in front of Ernie's and paid the fare, old Horwitz brought up the
fish again. He certainly had it on his mind. "Listen," he said. "If you was a fish, Mother
Nature'd take care of you, wouldn't she? Right? You don't think them fish just die when it
gets to be winter, do ya?"
"No, but--"
"You're goddam right they don't," Horwitz said, and drove off like a bat out of
hell. He was about the touchiest guy I ever met. Everything you said made him sore.
Even though it was so late, old Ernie's was jampacked. Mostly with prep school
jerks and college jerks. Almost every damn school in the world gets out earlier for
Christmas vacation than the schools I go to. You could hardly check your coat, it was so
crowded. It was pretty quiet, though, because Ernie was playing the piano. It was
supposed to be something holy, for God's sake, when he sat down at the piano. Nobody's
that good. About three couples, besides me, were waiting for tables, and they were all
shoving and standing on tiptoes to get a look at old Ernie while he played. He had a big
damn mirror in front of the piano, with this big spotlight on him, so that everybody could
watch his face while he played. You couldn't see his fingers while he played--just his big
old face. Big deal. I'm not too sure what the name of the song was that he was playing
when I came in, but whatever it was, he was really stinking it up. He was putting all these
dumb, show-offy ripples in the high notes, and a lot of other very tricky stuff that gives me a pain in the ass. You should've heard the crowd, though, when he was finished. You
would've puked. They went mad. They were exactly the same morons that laugh like
hyenas in the movies at stuff that isn't funny. I swear to God, if I were a piano player or
an actor or something and all those dopes thought I was terrific, I'd hate it. I wouldn't
even want them to clap for me. People always clap for the wrong things. If I were a piano
player, I'd play it in the goddam closet. Anyway, when he was finished, and everybody
was clapping their heads off, old Ernie turned around on his stool and gave this very
phony, humble bow. Like as if he was a helluva humble guy, besides being a terrific
piano player. It was very phony--I mean him being such a big snob and all. In a funny
way, though, I felt sort of sorry for him when he was finished. I don't even think he
knows any more when he's playing right or not. It isn't all his fault. I partly blame all
those dopes that clap their heads off--they'd foul up anybody, if you gave them a chance.
Anyway, it made me feel depressed and lousy again, and I damn near got my coat back
and went back to the hotel, but it was too early and I didn't feel much like being all alone.
They finally got me this stinking table, right up against a wall and behind a
goddam post, where you couldn't see anything. It was one of those tiny little tables that if
the people at the next table don't get up to let you by--and they never do, the bastards--
you practically have to climb into your chair. I ordered a Scotch and soda, which is my
favorite drink, next to frozen Daiquiris. If you were only around six years old, you could
get liquor at Ernie's, the place was so dark and all, and besides, nobody cared how old
you were. You could even be a dope fiend and nobody'd care.
I was surrounded by jerks. I'm not kidding. At this other tiny table, right to my
left, practically on top of me, there was this funny-looking guy and this funny-looking
girl. They were around my age, or maybe just a little older. It was funny. You could see
they were being careful as hell not to drink up the minimum too fast. I listened to their
conversation for a while, because I didn't have anything else to do. He was telling her
about some pro football game he'd seen that afternoon. He gave her every single goddam
play in the whole game--I'm not kidding. He was the most boring guy I ever listened to.
And you could tell his date wasn't even interested in the goddam game, but she was even
funnier-looking than he was, so I guess she had to listen. Real ugly girls have it tough. I
feel so sorry for them sometimes. Sometimes I can't even look at them, especially if
they're with some dopey guy that's telling them all about a goddam football game. On my
right, the conversation was even worse, though. On my right there was this very Joe
Yale-looking guy, in a gray flannel suit and one of those flitty-looking Tattersall vests.
All those Ivy League bastards look alike. My father wants me to go to Yale, or maybe
Princeton, but I swear, I wouldn't go to one of those Ivy League colleges, if I was dying,
for God's sake. Anyway, this Joe Yale-looking guy had a terrific-looking girl with him.
Boy, she was good-looking. But you should've heard the conversation they were having.
In the first place, they were both slightly crocked. What he was doing, he was giving her
a feel under the table, and at the same time telling her all about some guy in his dorm that
had eaten a whole bottle of aspirin and nearly committed suicide. His date kept saying to
him, "How horrible... Don't, darling. Please, don't. Not here." Imagine giving somebody
a feel and telling them about a guy committing suicide at the same time! They killed me.
I certainly began to feel like a prize horse's ass, though, sitting there all by myself.
There wasn't anything to do except smoke and drink. What I did do, though, I told the
waiter to ask old Ernie if he'd care to join me for a drink. I told him to tell him I was D.B.'s brother. I don't think he ever even gave him my message, though. Those bastards
never give your message to anybody.
All of a sudden, this girl came up to me and said, "Holden Caulfield!" Her name
was Lillian Simmons. My brother D.B. used to go around with her for a while. She had
very big knockers.
"Hi," I said. I tried to get up, naturally, but it was some job getting up, in a place
like that. She had some Navy officer with her that looked like he had a poker up his ass.
"How marvelous to see you!" old Lillian Simmons said. Strictly a phony. "How's
your big brother?" That's all she really wanted to know.
"He's fine. He's in Hollywood."
"In Hollywood! How marvelous! What's he doing?"
"I don't know. Writing," I said. I didn't feel like discussing it. You could tell she
thought it was a big deal, his being in Hollywood. Almost everybody does. Mostly people
who've never read any of his stories. It drives me crazy, though.
"How exciting," old Lillian said. Then she introduced me to the Navy guy. His
name was Commander Blop or something. He was one of those guys that think they're
being a pansy if they don't break around forty of your fingers when they shake hands with
you. God, I hate that stuff. "Are you all alone, baby?" old Lillian asked me. She was
blocking up the whole goddam traffic in the aisle. You could tell she liked to block up a
lot of traffic. This waiter was waiting for her to move out of the way, but she didn't even
notice him. It was funny. You could tell the waiter didn't like her much, you could tell
even the Navy guy didn't like her much, even though he was dating her. And I didn't like
her much. Nobody did. You had to feel sort of sorry for her, in a way. "Don't you have a
date, baby?" she asked me. I was standing up now, and she didn't even tell me to sit
down. She was the type that keeps you standing up for hours. "Isn't he handsome?" she
said to the Navy guy. "Holden, you're getting handsomer by the minute." The Navy guy
told her to come on. He told her they were blocking up the whole aisle. "Holden, come
join us," old Lillian said. "Bring your drink."
"I was just leaving," I told her. "I have to meet somebody." You could tell she was
just trying to get in good with me. So that I'd tell old D.B. about it.
"Well, you little so-and-so. All right for you. Tell your big brother I hate him,
when you see him."
Then she left. The Navy guy and I told each other we were glad to've met each
other. Which always kills me. I'm always saying "Glad to've met you" to somebody I'm
not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.
After I'd told her I had to meet somebody, I didn't have any goddam choice except
to leave. I couldn't even stick around to hear old Ernie play something halfway decent.
But I certainly wasn't going to sit down at a table with old Lillian Simmons and that Navy
guy and be bored to death. So I left. It made me mad, though, when I was getting my
coat. People are always ruining things for you.
I walked all the way back to the hotel. Forty-one gorgeous blocks. I didn't do it
because I felt like walking or anything. It was more because I didn't feel like getting in and out of another taxicab. Sometimes you get tired of riding in taxicabs the same way
you get tired riding in elevators. All of a sudden, you have to walk, no matter how far or
how high up. When I was a kid, I used to walk all the way up to our apartment very
frequently. Twelve stories.
You wouldn't even have known it had snowed at all. There was hardly any snow
on the sidewalks. But it was freezing cold, and I took my red hunting hat out of my
pocket and put it on--I didn't give a damn how I looked. I even put the earlaps down. I
wished I knew who'd swiped my gloves at Pencey, because my hands were freezing. Not
that I'd have done much about it even if I had known. I'm one of these very yellow guys. I
try not to show it, but I am. For instance, if I'd found out at Pencey who'd stolen my
gloves, I probably would've gone down to the crook's room and said, "Okay. How 'bout
handing over those gloves?" Then the crook that had stolen them probably would've said,
his voice very innocent and all, "What gloves?" Then what I probably would've done, I'd
have gone in his closet and found the gloves somewhere. Hidden in his goddam galoshes
or something, for instance. I'd have taken them out and showed them to the guy and said,
"I suppose these are your goddam gloves?" Then the crook probably would've given me
this very phony, innocent look, and said, "I never saw those gloves before in my life. If
they're yours, take 'em. I don't want the goddam things." Then I probably would've just
stood there for about five minutes. I'd have the damn gloves right in my hand and all, but
I'd feel I ought to sock the guy in the jaw or something--break his goddam jaw. Only, I
wouldn't have the guts to do it. I'd just stand there, trying to look tough. What I might do,
I might say something very cutting and snotty, to rile him up--instead of socking him in
the jaw. Anyway if I did say something very cutting and snotty, he'd probably get up and
come over to me and say, "Listen, Caulfield. Are you calling me a crook?" Then, instead
of saying, "You're goddam right I am, you dirty crooked bastard!" all I probably would've
said would be, "All I know is my goddam gloves were in your goddam galoshes." Right
away then, the guy would know for sure that I wasn't going to take a sock at him, and he
probably would've said, "Listen. Let's get this straight. Are you calling me a thief?" Then
I probably would've said, "Nobody's calling anybody a thief. All I know is my gloves
were in your goddam galoshes." It could go on like that for hours. Finally, though, I'd
leave his room without even taking a sock at him. I'd probably go down to the can and
sneak a cigarette and watch myself getting tough in the mirror. Anyway, that's what I
thought about the whole way back to the hotel. It's no fun to he yellow. Maybe I'm not all
yellow. I don't know. I think maybe I'm just partly yellow and partly the type that doesn't
give much of a damn if they lose their gloves. One of my troubles is, I never care too
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